“Play with fire and you’ll get burned.” How quickly you turned the tables, you yellow-bellied rat. You hemmed and hawed, full of alibis and excuses for your aloof behavior, wanting to have it both ways, your so-called independence and busyness balanced out by me waiting patiently by the phone. Weeks and months without so much as an I-hope-you-haven’t-killed-yourself phone call and you thought I’d be sitting in my little four-bedroom house embroidering robes for St. Anthony and the Virgin? You saw my house, shook hands with my parents and brother, saw my worth in all its simplicity and majesty and you still were foolish enough to walk. And now you’re going to accuse me of “indiscretion”, of my selfish need to do “what you had to do”? It’s true I love another man. I loved him even when I thought I might open my heart to you. I loved him even when I wasted my energy waiting on you to grow some balls. And I love him now more, much more than I could ever love a viper like you. You hid in a corner and sank your fangs into me without warning. But my blood is stronger than your weak poison. Burn.